Love, Anger, Madness_ A Haitian Trilogy - Marie Chauvet [52]
I looked him straight in the eye.
“I only have one religion, Papa,” I slowly articulated, “and I will never serve the loas”
“Then you will lose Lion Mountain.”
“Don’t rush her, Agronomist,” the old man cautioned. “The Catholic priests and nuns have stuffed her head and talked of voodoo as if it were damnation. Give her time to grow up and she will come to it on her own like every good black woman.”
“I will never serve the loas” I repeated.
And I ran to my horse, which I mounted full of rage.
Under my whip, Bon Ami galloped down the trails, nostrils quivering. I soon heard the hoofbeats of my father’s horse, reined in but champing at the bit. Guava branches stuck to my skirt, smacking me in the face and snatching my riding hat as their trophy. I arrived a few minutes before he did at the entrance to town. It was a Sunday. I found my mother at home all dressed up and, noticing me, she asked where my father was.
“He’s coming,” I answered.
“You barely have time to change and accompany me to vespers,” she told me.
Augustine, her head bristling with nappy little braids, was following Félicia like a dog.
I listened, panting, for my father’s steps. He opened the door, walked up to me and slapped me so hard that I almost fell to the ground.
“What has she done?” my mother asked him.
“Stubborn as a mule! Stubborn as a mule!” my father yelled. “You will obey me, you hear, and I will break you, even if I have to do it with a whip.”
My mother lowered her head and sniffled. I went up to change and accompany her to vespers.
“What have you done to your father this time?” she asked me on the way to church.
“He does voodoo, Mama. I saw him at Papa Cousineau’s, dressed like a disciple.”
“Alas!” my mother answered, “he was rash enough to accept the legacy of his black grandmother and he’s afraid not to keep his promises.”
“I won’t keep them for him,” I screamed with tears in my eyes.
Hush!” my mother said, rolling frightened eyes. “God forbid someone hears you and makes a scandal.”
I didn’t sleep that night. I was so agitated with shock and distaste that I was feverish. Voodoo, which until now I had considered a shameful religion practiced only by the poor, suddenly took shape before my eyes and engaged me in a struggle I had very little chance of winning: I feared my father and dreaded standing up to him.
“Resist, my child,” advised Father Paul, in whom I had confided out of sheer desperation. “Resist with all your might. In such a case as this, disobedience is permitted.”
I resisted and was whipped for it. Time went by. My father was not elected. He reproached me for bringing him bad luck and swore he would break me.
“I made a promise, you understand, I promised that you as the eldest would continue the legacy. But that was before your birth. How could I predict you would be a girl? …”
Although my studies were rather intense, up to now I had read only ancient history and the fables of La Fontaine. My father declared all books unwholesome and my mother, on his orders, cleaned my room herself in order to better rummage through my things at her leisure. My girlfriends’ fates were no happier; I resigned myself to mine, awaiting the marriage that would set me free. As I got older, I put together a life for myself. A very full and secret life to which no one else had access. Not even my friends. Solitude and idleness were my accomplices. To protect myself from prying eyes, I learned the importance of hypocrisy. With my parents I played the part of a perfect young lady. Once their backs were turned, I would undergo a revolution. Quickly changing my attitude, I arched my waist before my mirror, posing languidly, waltzing around and humming in a low voice.
Around that time I saw Frantz Camuse again. He was